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Humans are a curious lot.

Given the option, they will more often than not attempt to take the easiest route, quite a bit like electricity in those regards. One can hardly fault them for it; they are creatures of habit and instinct, and dislike venturing far from their comforts both in physical and metaphysical respects. There are, however, those odd few that don't quite belong, and I mean of course not the socially maladapted or the mad, but rather those that are unable to take the day to day peculiarities in stride. These, more often than not, tend to be children, who are inquisitive as to all things as their parents were before them, before the largeness of the world became mundane and unsurprising.

Derpy readjusted her little umbrella, keeping the rain from bouncing off their backs. It ran down in little rivets down her red umbrella and splattering the ground. Her foal lay slumped over on her back, out cold. Derpy shifted arms with the umbrella as she stood silently before the small gray apartments. She blinked cool rain from her eyes and took in a good look at the complex. Quiet, square little gray box apartments all lined up next to another, some even on top of others, all with graying plants of various assortments outside their windows as if each one was unique, although even Derpy could tell from the distance that they very much were no such thing. The lamplights provided little against the encroaching dark, but a few lights were still on in some of the windows. Derpy stood before one of the darkened apartments, letting out a quiet breath through her nostrils.

“Let me see here...” she ran a hoof over the labeled wooden front doors, walking down the sidewalk. “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine... ah, here we are, Dinky! Number forty!”

“Are we there yet?” Dinky's soft voice reached her, and she patted her foal on her back without looking up.

“Yes, we're finally here,” Derpy said a little out of breath as she carefully placed the sleepy unicorn on the ground in front of her. Dinky gazed up at the buildings and peered around through the dark, as if uncertain of something.

“Is this really where we're staying...?” Dinky blinked as her mother held open the front door for her.

“Home sweet home,” she patted her on the head again, ruffling her mane. Dinky trudged over the cheap linoleum flooring and stared up at the thin, peeling gray walls with cardboard boxes stacked against them. It was a very small place all said and done; Dinky silently assumed that the hallway walls would be too close together to traverse after the picture frames had been hung up.“Everything has already been delivered, now it's just a matter of settling in.”

“Mom? This place looks like it's falling apart.”

“Oh, it's not that bad,” Derpy stood in the open doorway and stared out into the rain, taking in a long, deep breath. “And don't leave the door open, Dinks, you'll let the cold in. This place isn't awful, right? As a matter of fact... yeah, yeah!” she spun on the spot with a huge grin. “This is perfect!”

“... Mom?” Dinky asked. “I'm pretty sure that I can hear mice in the walls.”

“Company!” Derpy clapped her hooves together excitedly. “Oh, goodie! You keep them entertained, I'll go dig out the muffin pans!”

Dinky watched her mother retreat to the small kitchen, silently shaking her head before glancing out the open doorway and into the rain. It had dwindled from the heavy droplets to a slick, soft drizzle, and Dinky stared up at the cloudy night sky as she took in a breath of cool air.

“... Greetings.”

Dinky blinked, peering about for the source of the noise. A light clicked on at a nearby window leading to one of the adjoining apartments, and in the window with his back craned against the sill sat a small boy. The space between the apartments was so small that she could have easily jumped the distance between the door and his window. He was hardly bigger than Dinky, with limp, shaggy brown hair and eyes that pierced the dark. Although his gaze was a little unsettling, it was undone by the woefully colorful pair of pajamas that he wore, and they seemed horridly out of place on him. Or anywhere, really.

“Um... hello,” Dinky gave the boy a small wave with one hoof. “My Mom says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“I should hardly think that I'm the strange one, here,” the boy in the rainbow pajamas said, giving her a level look. “Are you real?”

“Well, I think that's a question with a lot of answers,” Dinky mused, rubbing her chin. “I mean, are any of us real?”

“No, no,” the boy shook his head, leaning out the window and letting some of the drizzle hit him so that he could see her better. “I mean, you very clearly are just a hallucination.”

“Is that right,” Dinky replied dryly.

“I mean, obviously,” the boy crossed his arms. “In all likelihood brought about by lack of diligence concerning undercooked meat; I've no doubt in my mind that I may have ingested something which disagrees with me.”

“That's a very complicated response to a very simple question,” Dinky said with a slight frown. “How do you know I'm not the one dreaming and you'll be gone in a blink?”

“I could be gone faster than that, if you'd like.”

“Well...” she rubbed the back of her neck, staring up at the boy. “You don't have to leave just yet... I mean, Mom did say entertain the company.”

“I must admit I do find you most entertaining, if nothing else,” the hazel haired boy said.

“Fantastic,” Dinky said. “I've reached the status that late night talk show hosts dream of. I'm Dinky, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Always a pleasure,” the boy said with a small smile, extending his hand to her. “My name is William.”

Humans are a curious lot.

Given the option, they will more often than not attempt rationalize what they do not understand. It is human nature, born curiousness which drives them to seek out wonderment in even the most mundane of places. Sometimes, however, that curiousness comes right up to the doorstep.

Then it is merely a question of whether or not to invite them in.

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Author's Notes:

I'm back to writing horsewords.